Return to Sender
by msgenevieve447
Summary: He takes a deep breath, inhaling the subtle scent of pine and cranberry, and remembers very different messages, written in a very different life. (Written December 2009). ONE-SHOT.


_Please drink more milk. P.S. I love you._

Michael props up the post-it note next to Sara's wallet on the kitchen counter. He studies the note with a frown, feeling an odd sense of déjà vu. He takes a deep breath, inhaling the subtle scent of pine and cranberry as he appreciates the reality of where he is and who is waiting for him in the next room, then allows himself to remember a very different message, written in a very different life.

He remembers how carefully he'd printed the first words he'd ever written for her, his promise that there was a plan to make this right. The lettering, he thinks now, had been steady, even though his hand had been shaking. He remembers how he'd spent almost ten minutes writing those pleading words when he should have been going over the final plan in his head for the last time, and how he almost risked everything by taking the time to hide the message in her purse.

He remembers other messages. Staring at his cell phone dial pad as he carefully transcribed the code he knew she would be smart enough - always so smart, sometimes too smart - to decipher. How he'd written her name and address on half a dozen envelopes, how the simple act of writing her name had been enough to make him grip the pen a little tighter, his heart clenching as he sent up a silent prayer with every new letter.

Please.

_Please._

"Michael? Should I include LJ's latest girlfriend in this, or is that tempting fate?" Sara's voice instantly draws him back to the present. He exhales deeply, relaxing the curled fists that had been clutching at the past, and starts to smile as he makes his way to the dining room. His smile becomes a grin as he catches sight of Sara, sitting at the long table, surrounded by scraps of wrapping paper and bows and greeting cards. She's dressed in a plain white shirt, her hair pulled back in a ponytail, and if it wasn't for the graceful swell of her pregnancy, she'd look exactly the same as she had when he'd first met her at Fox River.

"Tempting fate?" He makes his way to her side, then drops into the chair beside her, nudging her bare foot with his own beneath the table. He can smell the body lotion she always uses after her morning shower, a fresh scent laced with vanilla and pomegranate that seems especially festive this evening, mingling with the heady presence of their newly installed Christmas tree. "What do you mean?"

She smiles, tucking a rebellious strand of auburn hair before one ear, then flashes him a quick smile. "I used to work with a woman who swore her habit of addressing her family holiday greeting cards early was the reason her brother kept breaking up with his girlfriends right before Christmas." She chuckles softly at the memory, her pen still poised above the still-blank greeting card in front of her. "The one time she didn't write them out early, he brought his girlfriend to Christmas dinner."

"I say we risk it." Michael says with a smile, picking up the modest pile of neatly addressed Christmas cards. He brushes his thumb over the neatly printed address for one Katie Welch, then glances at the return address. Beside him, he hears Sara's soft catch of breath, then heat is humming in his own throat, a lump the size of a fist suddenly making it hard to swallow.

_Michael and Sara Scofield,_ she's written in her usual sweeping stroke, followed by their post office box number. She's written their names clearly, firmly, as if daring the world to read them and pass judgment. He stares at the words, trying to work out why - when it's never bothered him that she will always be Doctor Tancredi to her colleagues and patients - the sight of those four words makes him feel as though she's just agreed to marry him all over again.

He lifts his eyes to hers, and she gives him a faintly sheepish smile. "I thought it might be a nice touch," she murmurs, a hint of colour staining her cheekbones. "You know, like a normal married couple."

He swallows hard, telling himself he's being an idiot. "Normal looks good on you." He slips his hand beneath the hurriedly tied ponytail, curling his fingers around the warm nape of her neck. "Want me to do some?"

Her eyes are already glittering, but now they flash with the spark of mischief he knows only too well. "And have everyone still trying to decode exactly what you'd written when Easter rolled around? Thanks, but no th-"

Her mouth is warm and sweet as she shapes the last word against his lips, letting him steal her voice and her breath with his tongue. He hears her pen clatter to the table, then feels the cool brush of her fingers against his face, holding him close as she kisses him back, soft and deep. It's a beguilingly lazy caress that makes him want to push the greeting cards to the floor and test the structural purity of their dining room table, because he is here and she is here and her belly is round and high beneath his hand and there is nothing he wouldn't do to keep making this right.

As if he's spoken the words out loud, she draws away slowly, her gaze traveling from his eyes to his lips and back again. "You're a terrible distraction."

He gives her what he hopes is a charming smile. It's hard to tell when his heart feels as though it's about to jump clean through his ribs. "I do what I can." He tilts his wrist towards her, letting her see the time on his watch, his whole body thrumming with the taste of her kiss. "Besides, it's after midnight."

Much later, the echo of her throaty gasp of pleasure still ringing in his ears, he gently touches her as her breathing grows slow and steady, moulding his palms to the shape of her hips, the generous curves of her breasts and belly, his fingertips still etching messages and promises into her skin. Please. _Please_.

When he finally sleeps, his dreams are filled with the scent of cranberry and the soft whisper of a thousand cranes fluttering through the air, their wings filled with scribbled messages he can't quite read. He wakes some unknown time late, still entangled in her arms. His eyes still closed, he presses a drowsy kiss to the top of her rumpled hair, one hand still splayed wide on her belly. Sara murmurs in her sleep, shifting restlessly in his embrace, then he feels the subterranean roll and kick of their unborn child shimmer beneath his palm, and knows he already has all the answers he will ever need.


End file.
